


Beautiful Beginnings

by the_random_writer



Series: Frenemies [1]
Category: Bourne (Movies), Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux, The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Beer, Doppelganger, First Meetings, Gen, Snark, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: An Englishman walks into a bar. A bar that happens to be the favourite haunt of FSB agent Kirill Orlov.A crossover fic that combines Cut & Run with mySeparated Twinsseries, featuring William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy'.  Related to myTriplesseries, but not part of it.Will only make sense if you have seen both movies, and know about a certain facecast for Ty Grady.





	

He was being watched.

Based on the way his shoulder blades were tingling, someone in the room behind him was almost impaling him with their eyes. And he didn't like that, not one damn bit. Unless, of course, the owner of the eyes in question was an extremely beautiful woman. Beautiful women were always welcome to enjoy the view, especially if they were interested in sampling the goods as well. Men and ugly women? Not so much.

In hindsight, it might have been a bad idea to opt for a seat at the bar. Not only did it leave him with his back to a room full of total strangers, it also meant he had no exit route in easy reach, should matters actually come to a violent head. There was a door at the very end of the bar, but he knew from an after-hours encounter with the flame-haired hostess at the front desk that it led only to a windowless room full of bottles of wine and beer.

His old Spetsnaz combat instructor would probably beat him black and blue, and remind him at nauseating length to never let his defenses down, even in social situations.

But he _liked_ sitting up at the bar, especially when the _Armeitsy_ were playing. Sitting at one of the tables was by far the less dangerous choice, but it would also mean he couldn't watch the game. And watching the game was his only reason for coming to the bar at all. If he couldn't do that, he might as well have stayed at home.

Besides, he was a civilian now. So, whatever his old Spetsnaz combat instructor thought about his seating choices was no longer of any relevance whatsoever. The miserable, sadistic, angry, old prick could stick his holier-than-thou opinion up his miserable, sadistic, angry, old ass. Assuming he was still alive, and hadn't been brutally bludgeoned to death by one of his more recent recruits…

Kirill waited to see if the feeling of being watched would fade. Five minutes passed, but nothing changed. If anything, the tingling sensation got even stronger.

He drained the remainder of his Yarpivo and placed the bottle down on the bar. It was time to leave.

If the person observing him meant him no harm, and was simply taking an eager interest in the establishment's other guests, he or she would quickly find another focus for their gaze. He would move on to another pub—maybe the Irish place a few doors down—take another seat at another bar, and start his evening all over again. Easy, simple, quick, polite. No fuss, no mess, no broken bones. And if he moved quickly, he would only miss a minute or so of the game.

If the person was on a darker and more violent mission, he or she would have to follow him on to the second location. Blood would probably be spilled, but it certainly wouldn't be his.

He pulled some roubles from his pocket and dumped a few notes on the bar—more than enough to pay for his single drink—then spun around and stepped down from the stool. And there he was, the mystery observer, barely five metres away.

He was sitting alone at one of the tables over near the door to the lounge, quietly nursing a half-empty glass of beer. He was attractive in a rugged way, with expressive eyes, full lips, a muscular build, close-cropped, dirty blond hair and the beginnings of an artfully scraggly beard. He also had the look of a man who knew how to watch his back, who could take a fruit knife into a gunfight and easily come out alive.

And he was still staring. _Very_ intently.

This would normally put Kirill on edge, except that he could somehow tell the man didn't intend to do him harm. He wasn't wearing the neutral, calculating mask of a high-end, professional killer, and his expression wasn't one of hatred or rage. If anything, it was a blend of curiosity and sadness, perhaps even edging into wistful regret.

Kirill had always had an excellent memory for faces—an advantage in his line of work—but he couldn't remember ever having seen this particular face before. He didn't know the other man, but given the way he was fixing his stare, the other man appeared to know him. Was it possible his memory was wrong, and the two of them had actually met?

There was one easy way to find out.

Kirill strode across to the table, his movements assured and controlled. Curiously, the man made no attempt to pretend he hadn't just been caught in the act, but continued to stare as Kirill approached, as bold as proverbial brass.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Kirill demanded, purposely using the informal mode of address. He knew he was being rude, but he didn't particularly care. Something about the stranger's behaviour was rubbing him the wrong way.

The man smiled and leaned back in his chair, revealing even more of his impressively muscular form. His pose was relaxed, but Kirill could see the tension coiling underneath.

"That all depends now, doesn't it, darling?" the stranger asked with an alarmingly insouciant smile. "What are you good at doing?"

The words made Kirill's hackles rise, but the intonation made him pause. Whatever else the stranger might be, he certainly wasn't Russian-born. To Kirill's (admittedly untrained) ear, he sounded like an English speaker. Probably British, based on what he was doing to his vowels, _and_ on what he had just said. No Russian man who valued his life would ever say something as suggestive as that to a stranger in a Russian bar. An insight Kirill fully intended to share.

"I am very good at hurting people who do things I do not like," he warned, his voice turning hard and cold. "I do not like being addressed as 'darling', especially by another man I do not know, and I do not like being stared at without a very good reason."

The stranger smiled again, more diplomatically this time, then bowed his head very slightly to acknowledge that he'd given offense. "Sorry about that, mate," he said in a less challenging tone. "Didn't mean to offend you. Bad habit of mine. Just couldn't help myself."

Kirill sighed and frowned, then nodded back just as slightly, accepting the man's not-apology for what it was. He knew better than to pick a fight when there was effectively no fight to pick. Besides, if he pushed the matter any further, he would _definitely_ miss the rest of the game. "Enjoy your drink," he muttered stiffly. He turned to head back to the bar, eager to reclaim his seat before he lost it to another guest.

"If it's any consolation, there was a very good reason," the stranger called out.

Kirill paused and swivelled again. "A good reason for what?" he asked.

"The staring," the man explained. "It wasn't _just_ because I liked the look of you."

"And what was that reason?" Kirill asked, his curiosity pushing his interest in the fate of the _Armeitsy_ aside. He could always watch the highlights program later.

The man paused to take a sip of his beer. "You look very like someone I used to know," he then revealed. "In fact, I swear you could be his bloody twin."

Kirill froze completely still. His heart raced, his ears hummed and his right hand began to shake.

The stranger drew his brows together, no doubt noticing the change in Kirill's bearing and demeanour. "You okay there, mate?" he asked. "You've got a look on your face like I just punched you in the family jewels."

Kirill said nothing, but focused on breathing in and out, gradually driving the sense of panic away. Once the shaking in his hand had stopped, he reached out, grabbed the back of the other chair, and without waiting for the man's permission, pulled it out from under the table and carefully took a seat. He waited a few seconds more, to be sure he sounded calm when he spoke. "This someone you used to know," he began, not quite sure he actually wanted to ask the question that was coming next. "By any chance, was his name William?"

The other man frowned again. "Why the bloody hell would you ask me that?"

Under the table, Kirill clenched his right hand into a fist, feeling his patience running thin. "It is extremely important, so humour me, please. The man's name, was it William?" Kirill asked again, slightly annoyed that even after twenty-six years, and even though he spoke excellent English, he still struggled with the pronunciation of his twin brother's name. What was the silly diminutive he'd used as a child back in Berlin? Viko. Yes, that was it. Not a wholly appropriate choice—more suited to a Victor than to a William—but childish decisions rarely made any sense.

"No, it wasn't," the man replied.

As quickly as it had collected, the tension drained out of Kirill's limbs. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and murmured a short prayer of thanks. Thank God. The moment he'd dreaded for the last twenty-odd years might still eventually come, but it wasn't going to come today.

He started slightly as a shadow fell across the table, but it was only the prettier of the two servers, come to find out what he wanted to drink. He raised his hand to brush her away, but the stranger beat him to the punch.

"He'll have a pint of Guinness," he said to the blonde in perfect but accented Russian. "And put it on my tab."

She nodded, flashed them a smile that didn't go all the way to her eyes, then sauntered lazily back to the bar.

"Thank you," Kirill said with a slight nod of his head.

"No worries, mate. Least I can do."

That wasn't _entirely_ true, but Kirill wasn't about to argue the point.

They sat for a moment in silence and stillness, each of them waiting for the other to talk, quietly sizing each other up.

Eventually, the stranger smiled and stuck out a work-roughened hand. "The name's Liam, by the way," he announced. "Liam Bell."

Kirill took and firmly shook the hand. "Kirill Alexandrovich," he said.

Eyebrows shot up. "No surname to go with that?"

"Not that you need to know."

"You know, where _I_ come from, that response would be considered rude. _Especially_ since I just bought you a pint of beer."

"But we are _not_ where you come from, my friend. We are in Moscow, which is where _I_ come from. And where _I_ come from, people who have just met each other do not ask such prying questions. With or without the pint of beer."

"And never let it be said I'm the kind of man who ignores important, local social customs."

"Indeed."

The conversation halted again as the waitress returned to the table with his drink.

Kirill plucked the glass from her tray and raised it towards his new companion. "Prost," he cheerfully proposed.

"Kanpai," Bell said in return, lifting his own half-finished beer.

Another still and silent pause.

"So tell me, Kirill Alexandrovich," Liam began. "What line of work are you in?"

Kirill let out a quiet snort. _Definitely_ British. In his experience, they started most of their conversations in one of two equally tedious ways; asking you how you earned your living or with a drivelling comment about the weather.

He sipped at his beer, mulling over how best to respond. He'd spent most of the last six weeks terrorizing a journalist from a newspaper called The Independent, forcing the man to pack up and move back to Britain in fear of his and his girlfriend's lives. An artfully executed mission with a highly successful result, but not exactly something he could share with Gospodin Bell.

"I work for the Federal Security Service," he eventually declared.

Eyebrows shot up again. "Really?"

Kirill huffed, disliking the feeling of not being believed. "Yes, really."

"Can I ask which department you're in?"

Another question with no easy response. "I am not permanently assigned to any particular department," Kirill quietly explained. "I go wherever my skills are needed the most." And by skills, he mostly meant his ability to aim a gun.

Bell nodded, catching the message underneath. "Then you're probably a useful and dangerous man to know," was his circumspect response.

"Useful and dangerous," Kirill repeated, smiling slightly. "You could say that, yes."

Liam swirled his beer around in his glass. "Believe it or not, I'm actually in a similar line of work myself," he declared.

"Yes, I suspected as much."

"Takes one to know one, yeah?"

"When you have been in the business as long as I have, you quickly learn to pick out the other travellers on the road," the Russian replied. He made no mention of the fact they were probably on the road to hell. If this Liam was indeed a fellow provider of certain highly sought-after skills, he more than likely already knew _exactly_ where he was going.

"You are British?" Kirill asked in English.

Smirking, Liam switched to his native tongue. "That obvious?"

"Your Russian is excellent, but the way you shorten your vowels is extremely distinctive," Kirill explained. "Something I mostly hear with people from the United Kingdom."

"I'll have to work on that."

"I would not lose any sleep over it. And I am sure the way I speak _your_ native language stands out just as much."

Another smirk. "You could say that, yes."

"Do you work for the British government?" Kirill asked, fervently hoping the answer was 'no'. If the answ r was 'yes', not only would he immediately have to leave the bar, he would also have to go into the office tomorrow and fill out a lengthy report, informing the FSB that he'd come into contact with an agent of a non-allied, foreign power. His asshole boss would no doubt try to use it as grounds for some form of punitive action, even though the contact had happened purely by chance. At least, he _assumed_ it was purely by chance. The Brits were a devious bunch, and this particular Brit struck him as someone extremely devious indeed.

"No worries there, mate," Bell replied, putting Kirill's concerns to rest. "I used to, a few years ago, until Her Majesty and I had a bit of a falling out."

Kirill smiled, thinking about his own none too diplomatic departure from the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, a little over a year ago. It had seemed a good idea at the time but the Zaslon thing had been a mistake.

"But you are ex-military, yes?" he asked.

Liam nodded. "Special Air Service."

 _Definitely_ a fellow provider.

Kirill had once participated in a joint Russian-British special forces training mission over in the Scottish Highlands, back in the days when the two countries were still pretending to get along, before Volodya came to power. He knew _exactly_ how good and how tough the infamous chicken stranglers were. Not quite as good or as tough as the men of his own unit, but obviously, that went without saying.

The Brit turned the question around. "And what about you? Were you in the armed forces before you signed on with the FSB?"

Kirill nodded. "Spetsnaz."

"How long?" Bell asked, looking impressed.

"Ten years."

"Were you ever posted to Chechnya?"

"Both times, yes."

"Didn't much like the look of those argy-bargies when they were going on," Liam murmured. "Especially the Battle of Grozny. _Very_ nasty state of affairs."

Kirill gave a nonchalant shrug. "It was, but I doubt being sent to Tora Bora to look for Osama bin Laden was any better."

"Oh, come on, now," Bell exclaimed. "Who _doesn't_ love a good war in Afghanistan?"

"At least we eventually realized the Afghan War cannot be won," Kirill pointed out. "You Brits have been fighting it on and off since you last had a Queen on the throne, and have still not figured that out."

"What can I say, love? We're obviously very persistent."

"Or very stupid."

Liam tutted and shook his head. "Careful, comrade. That's my nearest and dearest you're knocking there."

Kirill smirked again. He was quite sure this Liam Bell had only one name on his list of nearest and dearest, and that was his own.

"Speaking of our nearest and dearest," the Englishman continued, "who's this William chap who just got you all hot and bothered under the collar?"

"Nobody important," Kirill replied, feeling his smirk falling into a churlish frown.

"Oh, I doubt that, darling," the other man murmured. "From the way you almost passed out on me there, I think your William's someone _very_ important indeed."

"Let me rephrase my answer, then. He is nobody you need to concern yourself with."

His arms spread wide, Liam leaned back in his chair. "Why the bloody hell didn't you just say that?"

"I believe I did."

"Not the way I heard it, you didn't."

Blessed Mother, but this man was beginning to get under his skin. "Then perhaps you were not listening properly," was Kirill's stiff response.

"To be honest, listening's never really been one of my strengths," Bell admitted, grinning again. "I've always been much better at using my mouth than my ears."

Kirill ignored the provocative comment and took another mouthful of beer. He'd played the defensive position for long enough; it was time for him to ask the awkward questions instead. "Who is the person you used to know who I apparently resemble very much?" he politely enquired.

"Nobody important," Liam repeated.

Kirill grunted and shook his head. "All of these unimportant people we know. How do the two of us _ever_ get anything done?"

"What makes you think the person in question was important to me?"

"You would not have stared at me for so long if he wasn't."

"Maybe I was lying earlier. Maybe I did just like the look of you after all."

The FSB agent grunted again. If Bell was trying to provoke him into an angry response by pretending to be attracted to him, he was barking up the wrong tree. Kirill wasn't remotely interested in other men, but unlike many of his fellow Russians, same-sex relationships gave him no cause for concern. What two consenting adults did to each other in the privacy of their own homes was absolutely no business of his. Besides, it really couldn't be any more shocking than what he'd occasionally done to some of his more adventurous female friends.

"You can like the look of me as much as you want, Mister Bell. But I regret to inform you that I am not interested."

"Now, that _is_ a pity," Liam replied, sounding genuinely disappointed.

Kirill put two and two together. "This other man I apparently resemble. He was your lover?"

"Yes," was all Liam said.

"But you are no longer together."

"In neither body nor in spirit."

"A recent break-up?" Kirill enquired.

"A few years ago now, so no, not really."

"May I ask why?"

"He shot me."

"I can see how that would be detrimental to your relationship."

Bell barked out a hearty laugh; not an unpleasant sound. "Kirill, my friend, you have a singular talent for understatement."

"Says the man who comes from a country where the Prime Minister once described the Great Patriotic War as a 'spot of local bother'," Kirill indignantly shot back.

Liam chuckled again. "Well, here's to having singular talents, whatever they may actually be," he offered, raising his glass for another toast.

Kirill met the charge, then took a gulp of the creamy stout, savouring the distinctive taste. As much as it pained him to admit it, no other beer in the world was anywhere _near_ as good as this. In his not-so-humble opinion, the only drink better than Guinness in Moscow was Guinness at the brewery in Dublin itself.

"This man who shot you, what was his name?" he asked.

Liam narrowed his eyes. "Don't see why you'd want to know that."

"In case I am ever unfortunate enough to meet him. I will know to either get out of his way, or shoot first and ask questions later." Kirill shrugged. "But if you don't want to tell me, I understand."

"Grady," the Brit eventually said. "His name was Tyler Grady."

"Was he also a member of the SAS?" Kirill asked, suspecting the answer was 'no'. He wasn't an expert by any means, but that didn't sound like a British name.

Bell shook his head. "American. _Also_ a dangerous and useful man to know. A Recon Marine, of all things."

A Recon Marine? _Bozhe moi_. That was a highly troublesome species of soldier—even more troublesome than a member of the infamous SAS. Kirill had never gone up against one out in the field, but based on what he'd heard from some of his Spetsnaz colleagues, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Did you serve together?" Kirill asked, remembering Bell's comment about Afghanistan.

"I suppose you could say that."

"In a combat zone?"

"For a while, yes, a year or so before nine-eleven. We were assigned to the same NATO Advanced Coalition Team."

"I am impressed."

"What, that we served on an Advanced Coalition Team?"

"That the two of you got away with what you were doing."

Now it was Liam's turn to shrug. "You know how it was in the British and American forces for a while there."

Kirill nodded. "Your commanding officers didn't ask."

"And we certainly didn't tell."

"So why did he shoot you?"

"It's complicated," Liam said.

"When lovers shoot each other, it usually is."

"I wouldn't know, mate. I'm trying not to make a habit of it."

"It has happened to me a couple of times."

"How'd it work out?"

"I am unharmed, they are not."

"You killed them?" Liam asked, his eyes going wide.

"No, but I taught them both a lesson they will never forget," Kirill solemnly advised. "An extremely painful one."

"Why am I suddenly very glad you're not interested in other men?"

"A win-win situation, yes?"

The Englishman snorted loudly, then said, "So what about _your_ doppelganger friend?"

"What doppelganger friend?"

"This William fellow. Where's he from? With a name like that, I'm guessing he's not Russian."

"He is also American," Kirill reluctantly replied. "Or at least I assume he is. I don't know for sure."

"You _assume_ he is?"

"Yes."

Realization dawned on Liam's face. "He's your brother, isn't he? Your _actual_ twin brother? Not some guy who just happens to look a bit like you?"

Kirill sighed. "Yes."

"Older or younger?"

"He is the elder."

His brother's first and least forgivable sin.

"But not by much, obviously, if you're identical twins."

"Sixteen minutes."

"Based on the way you talk about him, I'm going to take a wild guess the two of you aren't in touch."

"No, we are not."

"I would say that's a shame, but I don't talk to my older brother, either."

"Any particular reason?" Kirill asked.

"How about the fact he's a total wanker?"

"I can see how that would hinder communication."

Liam chuckled again. "You're really wasted on the FSB, you know. You should go find a job with the British government instead. Or maybe even the BBC. You could be the guy who does the weather forecast after the six o'clock news, describe an incoming hurricane as a 'touch of wind'. Make us all think we're just going to spend a couple of days farting into our Queen Anne chairs."

The image almost made Kirill grin. "I will keep that in mind if the FSB ever proves to be a completely worthless employer."

"You'd need to lose the accent, though," the Englishman warned. "The London luvvies who run the BBC don't much care for Russians. Doesn't matter how useful and dangerous they are."

"In my experience, these London luvvies you speak of don't much care for anyone. _Especially_ each other."

"Almost as bad as the Swiss."

Kirill groaned. "Please, Gospodin. _Nobody_ is as bad as the Swiss."

"So you've experienced the pleasures of the Confederation?"

"A few times, yes," Kirill revealed, thinking back on his recent 'vacation' to Bern and Geneva.

"Good place to buy a watch."

"Just a shame about the women."

"Bad?"

"I had less trouble getting laid in Iran."

"So what about you?"

"What about me?"

"What's the reason you're not in touch with your brother?" Liam asked. "Is he a total wanker as well?"

"It's complicated," Kirill repeated.

"Why do I get the feeling it's also a very interesting story?"

Kirill gently swirled his beer. "Let us just say that truth is indeed sometimes stranger than fiction."

"Don't suppose you're in the mood to share?"

"Not really, no."

"Not even if I buy you another drink?"

"Not even if you offer to wine me and dine me."

"What if I tell you what happened with Tyler?" Bell proposed. "Will you tell me what happened with William, then?"

Kirill paused to consider the offer. He wasn't willing to give his story away, but under the right conditions, he might be willing to trade. "Perhaps."

"Come on, darling," Liam coaxed, leaning forward over the table. "You need to give me something much better than _that_."

"Very well," Kirill agreed. "If you tell me what happened with Tyler, I will tell you what happened with William." He held up a hand. "But please, do not tell me about the fucking, or anything else of a sexual nature. If it does not involve a beautiful woman, I don't want to know."

"But what if the fucking was the best part?" the Englishman protested.

"It does not matter. I don't care that you are attracted to men, but I also don't want to know what the two of you did to each other in bed."

"What makes you think we ever used a bed?"

Kirill shot the other man a glare. "Or wherever the two of you met to bowl from the pavilion end. Don't be facetious."

"You'll be missing a real treat, you know. Because the things that man could do with his cock were nothing if not entertaining. And his _mouth_? Fuck me. Was almost a crime against nature."

Kirill snorted. "According to our esteemed Prime Minister, it _is_ a crime against nature."

"Do you always believe what Comrade Putin tells you to believe?"

"Of course not, no."

"That's not very loyal of you."

"It has nothing to do with loyalty. I will do whatever work he and his cronies want me to do, and take whatever money they are willing to pay, but they cannot tell me what to think in here," Kirill explained, tapping on the side of his head. "Whatever else I may be, I am very much my own man first."

"You're never going to move up the FSB ladder with a bra-burning attitude like that," Bell advised, tutting softly.

"I am never going to move up the FSB ladder at all, bra-burning attitude or not."

"Oh dear," Liam lamented, creasing his brows. "Did you do something naughty to make them not like you? Did you get shit-faced at the office Christmas party, or accidentally stick your cock in your boss's daughter?"

"I do not go to office Christmas parties, and I would rather allow you and your Recon friend to violate me from both ends at the same time than lay so much as a _finger_ on my boss's daughter."

"Not much of a looker, then?"

"She is what an Australian man I once knew would refer to as a 'two-bagger'." One of his all-time, favourite terms to describe the world's less attractive people, and one of the few interesting things the man in question had had to say. Not that Kirill had given him much of a chance to talk, given that he'd put two bullets in him a few minutes later; one to the chest and one to his own two-bag head.

Liam winced. "Ouch."

"Cruel, but honest."

"So if it wasn't because you got Michael Fished, and it wasn't because you got tangled up in some ugly tart's knickers, why has the FSB decided it doesn't like you?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think it is because I had the misfortune to be born to an American mother."

"Your mum's a _Yank_?" the Brit exclaimed.

"Yes."

"How the bloody hell did you manage that?"

"As I said, it is complicated," Kirill repeated. "And it wasn't as if I really had any choice in the matter."

"Must be where you get all those bra-burning tendencies from."

"She _was_ an artist."

"She any good?"

"Good enough that David Bowie once asked her to paint a portrait of him."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"When was that?"

"Before she abandoned me."

"Ah," Liam said, wincing again.

"Exactly."

"But that's why you think William's American, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Because he's over there with your American mum, and you're over here with your Russian dad?"

"Not exactly."

"What, your father's not Russian?" Liam asked, looking confused.

"It would be more accurate to say he _was_ Russian."

Bell nodded in understanding. "He's dead, then."

"Very."

"If you don't mind me asking, how did he die?"

Kirill _did_ mind, but answered the question nonetheless. "The KGB had him shot." At least, that's what the circumstances and evidence said.

"Bugger me," Liam murmured.

Kirill wrinkled his nose. "Thank you, but I would rather not."

"The FSB's pretty much the successor organization to the KGB, right?"

"One of them, yes."

"So if they don't really like you, and they executed your old man, why the bloody hell do you work for them?" Liam demanded to know.

Kirill shrugged. "Because I like being able to shoot people who annoy me without worrying about going to jail."

"There is that, yeah."

"Plus, the dental benefits are very good."

"You know, I _was_ about to suggest we get in another round," Liam revealed, waving his almost-finished beer. "And if you're up for it, maybe we could order up some grub as well?"

"The Olivier Salad here is excellent," Kirill helpfully volunteered.

"Don't think I've ever had that."

"Similar to potato salad, but with chicken, peas, carrots, onions, pickles and hardboiled eggs as well," the Russian explained. "One of my favourite dishes. Good, traditional, Russian food."

"Does it go well with beer?"

"Do I look like a man who would recommend a food that does _not_ go well with beer?"

Bell chuckled, then gave a contented sigh. "You know what, Kirill Alexandrovich? I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"That is a shame."

"Why?"

"Because I do not."

He was an agent of the _Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti_ , not a candidate for Friend of the Year.

Liam huffed and rolled his eyes. "Well, what about a _useful_ friendship, then?" he counter-proposed. "I don't have a reliable go-to guy in Moscow right now, which is actually why I'm here. Wouldn't mind adding you to my contact list, if you think you're someone worth knowing."

"Of course I am someone worth knowing," was Kirill's surly response. "But I am not the kind of man who helps people out of the goodness of his heart. What would you provide to me in return? Would this be a cash arrangement, or a like-for-like deal?"

"I usually go with like-for-like," Liam replied. "I've got a shitload of excellent contacts in Britain and France. A few in Germany and Poland as well."

Kirill leaned back in his chair. "As do I," he said, suddenly bored. Was this really the best the former snake eater could do?

"I'll bet my left bollock you don't have a good network of contacts in the States."

"Forgive me, but did you miss the part where I mentioned I work for the FSB?" Kirill asked tetchily. "As in Russia's _domestic_ security service? Why the fuck would I need a network of contacts in the States?"

"Because some of the people in that network could probably find your brother for you," the Brit explained. "If that's something you're interested in."

"It is not."

"You sure about that, love?"

"Yes," said Kirill. "And don't call me 'love'."

"Fair enough, mate. Your life, your choice. But don't say I didn't offer. And if it's not my contacts you want, let me think about what else I could bring to the table, yeah?"

Kirill nodded curtly, then said, "Speaking of loves, I assume your network of contacts in the States does not include your homicidal Recon marine?"

"Sadly, no."

"I don't imagine you even know where he is these days, given how many years ago the two of you went your separate ways."

Liam flashed him a feral grin. "Oh, I know _exactly_ where my Tyler is," he murmured.

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"So where is he?"

"Right now, he's in New York, trying to catch himself an extremely creative serial killer."

Kirill's curiosity stirred. "So he has gone into law enforcement?" he asked; a path he knew all too well.

"He's an FBI agent, of all things. A _special_ one." Liam almost spat the word.

"He must lead a very interesting life."

Bell snorted. "Not as interesting as the life the silly bugger could be leading," he muttered darkly.

"But you are done with him, yes?"

The Englishman smiled, forcing the surly moment away. "Not completely."

"Did he borrow your Barry Manilow record collection and forget to give it back?" Kirill asked mockingly.

But Liam wisely ignored the taunt. "Let's just say we have some unfinished business I might eventually decide I want to finish."

"Are you going to kill him?"

The other man shook his head. "I doubt it. I mean, it _would_ raise the average global IQ by a couple of points, but it would also be an absolutely terrible waste. Of that wonderful mouth, if nothing else."

"You mean the wonderful mouth you will never again have the pleasure of using?"

"You're such a bloody pessimist," the Brit complained.

"I am _Russian_ ," Kirill reminded his new drinking companion. "What the fuck else am I supposed to be?"

"If memory serves, you're supposed to be telling me all about the wonderful William."

Kirill wagged a reproving finger. "But only after you tell me all about the terrible Tyler. Was this not our deal?"

"Yes, I believe it was."

"And you should know, _Liam_ ," Kirill continued, rolling his tongue around the unusual name, so very similar to his twin's, "that I do not work with people who cannot or will not keep their end of the deal."

Liam grinned again and flashed his brows. "What, not even when they're as attractive and talented as me?"

" _Especially_ when they are as attractive and talented as you."

The Englishman drained the last of his drink. "I might have mentioned this already, but I think and communicate more effectively when I've had a bite to eat."

"You did. And that is something else we apparently have in common," Kirill commented, raising his hand to attract the server's attention. A bowl of the Olivier Salad and a side plate of veal pelmeni would suit him very nicely.

"So food first, then we talk about William and Tyler?" Liam proposed.

Kirill nodded. "Food first, then we talk about William and Tyler. And to answer your question from earlier, it is Orlov."

"What is?"

"My surname."

"Well, then," Liam announced. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Orlov."

"Mister Bell, please believe me when I tell you that the pleasure is all mine."


End file.
